


The Gift

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, Fluff, Gifts, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22030258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which there is a little wooden elephant, and a long overdue confession
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 138
Kudos: 808





	The Gift

"Now, where would an angel keep a collection of antique military whistles?" Crowley mutters to himself, mostly sarcastically, because no matter how many times Aziraphale insists that he has a system, Crowley has plenty of evidence to the contrary. He flicks his way through a stack of letters, a spray of index cards, two pocket watches, three takeaway leaflets and a flier for the art exhibition they went to last week. 

No luck.

"Not that antique means much to the likes of us, doesn't seem to take five minutes any more before something's bloody vintage." He checks the top drawer of Aziraphale's desk. Which contains a pile of letters tied together with a blue ribbon, three small books, some stamps, eleven corks, four vesta cases (two of which he vaguely recognises as his,) and the angel's phone charger, so hopelessly tangled that only a miracle is going to fix it. There's a small possibility it may have done it in self-defence, since Crowley has seen how the angel treats his poor smartphone, that's done nothing to deserve such neglect.

"Mixing eras in a desk drawer are we now? Why am I not surprised." He shakes his head and pokes them aside, to see what's underneath. Still nothing.

The second drawer holds a stack of mail, a dozen library cards, some invitations from the fifties (century a mystery,) seven pens, a hat pin with a coiled serpent on it (definitely his,) four pieces of sheet music Crowley vaguely recognises, but can't be bothered to scrutinise further, and a small book about birdwatching with colourful annotations.

"I refuse to believe you have any sort of system, angel, this is pure, unfiltered madness."

The third drawer contains another stack of letters (no fancy ribbon this time) sixteen postcards, and a small velvet bag, which, judging by his curious poking, contains something misshapen and hard. Crowley picks it up, loosens the string, and then upends it into his other hand. 

The object that falls out is made of wood, blocky and old and inexpertly carved. It might have been hard to tell what it was originally supposed to be, but Crowley knows that it's an elephant.

Crowley knows that it's an elephant, because he made it.

~

Humans make a lot of things look easy. They shouldn't, by all rights, be good at so much bloody stuff. They're squishy, and fragile, and stupidly reckless, and they won't stop fighting with each other no matter how far apart you put them. But somehow they still live long enough to learn things, and then teach smaller versions of themselves how to do those things _better_ , and then you have a whole bunch of them competing, and learning, and writing things down, and somehow a thousand years later they've done things Crowley would have thought impossible. 

Wood carving, for instance, that had always looked so stupidly easy to Crowley. You see bored men doing it all the time. Toys for their kids, clothes ties, combs, playing pieces for board games, little pegs and buttons and things. Turning a bit of wood into a thing, how hard could it be?

Crowley is frustrated to learn that it's much, much harder than it looks. He's stabbed himself literally hundreds of times, and he'd taken almost all the skin off the top of his left thumb, and broken innumerable pieces of wood. And that's before he's even really worked out how to do faces, or arms. He's an occult being, with incredible occult powers, and he's been human-shaped for a thousand years. Why is this so bloody difficult?

He's mostly sticking with animals now, since that's pretty much the only view at the moment, and to be honest though the view is better than the smell, both will wear on you after a while.

The only problem is that Crowley's animals are as bad as his people, or worse depending on number and positioning of legs. He could blame that on the light in the lower levels of the Ark, there isn't a lot of it after all. But he can see in the dark just fine, so that just feels like an excuse. What there is though, in the lower levels, is a lot of spare bits of wood, and Crowley was bored enough to try and teach himself something while the children slept. He hasn't worked out how to make curves properly yet, that would be fairly bloody helpful, because no animal in nature is composed entirely of straight lines and badly cored out holes, but he's trying his best.

Though for the last eight days he's pretty sure he's been getting worse - can you get worse at things if you do them too much? How does that make any bloody sense?

The one he's currently working on is for Aziraphale, and he's already picked and carved at it more than he probably should. He's been trying to make it perfect, but he's not good enough for it to be perfect, which is leaving him frustrated. He knows at this point that he has to stop fiddling with it, or he's just going to break a leg off this one too. He isn't going to do a better job, and if Aziraphale doesn't like it - well then that's fine. Crowley's getting pretty good at pretending not to care about things.

The angel doesn't come down to him for a few days, and by then the elephant has worn a hole in his pocket - literally, the blessed thing had a splintery, pokey edge he'd already had to fix twice.

But eventually he finds Aziraphale petting one of the goats, smiling indulgently at its stupid bleating noises, while its mate, the tricky bastard, tries to devour the angel's sleeve while he's not looking. He probably will as well, those things will eat anything.

Crowley pulls the wooden elephant out of his pocket, too nervous to drag this whole thing out. He thrusts it at the angel in one hopefully casual movement.

"Here."

It takes Aziraphale a second to realise Crowley wants him to take it. But he eventually does with a confused sort of expression. 

"Oh." The angel turns it, gets a good look at Crowley's inexpert carving, enough of one that he's starting to feel more than a bit embarrassed about the whole thing. The angel's smiling though, that has to be good, right? "Gosh, that's very clever. It's a bear."

Which, for some reason, is strangely devastating.

"It's an _elephant_ ," Crowley tells him, and he manages to make that sound pointed and scathing, rather than upset. Because he'd worked really hard on the ears, and ok, they weren't the same size, or round, but they were clearly huge. That was your defining elephant bit, wasn't it, big ears? It was clearly an elephant.

"Oh, oh, of course it is, my mistake." Aziraphale turns it a few times, then looks at Crowley, as if he's confused about what exactly he's supposed to do with it. He tries to hand it back, and Crowley makes a frustrated sound of annoyance, and pushes the angel's hand back towards him.

"Saw you took a liking to them," Crowley says. Because it's true, more than once he's spotted Aziraphale feeding the both of them extra grass, bananas and apples when he thinks no one's looking, smiling fit to burst and patting their trunks, and flanks with a delighted sort of indulgence. "So I made it for you." He makes it sound casual, like it's not a big deal, because he's been making them for the children, and this is just one extra isn't it. He's really not very good, but the kids don't care if they're a bit wonky, or lopsided, or if they have the wrong number of legs, because one broke off. They're just happy to have things to play with. Or to bash into things, loudly and repeatedly, depending on their age. At least Crowley's attempts have been mostly sturdy enough to endure it.

Aziraphale's had taken him four times as long, because he'd broken the first three that he'd tried. The ears, trunk and tusks were really bloody hard to get right - and he still hasn't managed it as well as he'd like. But it seemed like the sort of thing you did. The angel was his friend. You do that, don't you? You give gifts to your friends.

"You made it for me?" Aziraphale says faintly, he still looks confused, which is getting a little uncomfortable now. "To - to keep?"

Typical angel, you give them something nice and then they make you feel awkward about it. 

"You don't have to, _obviously_ ," Crowley says, because he doesn't want the angel to feel like he's forcing anything on him. "It's yours now, you can keep it, or give it away, or throw it overboard if you like."

Aziraphale awkwardly folds his hand over it, as if he thinks Crowley might try and take it back and do exactly that.

"No, no, it's very nice of you. Thank you."

Crowley scowls at him. "I'm not nice," he spits. Because the last thing he wants is a reputation for being _nice_ to people. If Hell even suspects he's done something nice they'll make a bloody example of him. Literally. "Don't even suggest such a thing, do you want to get me in trouble?"

Aziraphale looks briefly flustered, before he nods. "No, of course not, my apologies. I shall ensure that this fiendish object doesn't fall into the wrong hands." He uses a miracle to make some sort of alteration to his clothing, and it takes Crowley a moment to realise that he's given himself pockets, and tucked the elephant away in one of them.

Crowley's awkward discomfort reaches critical levels, face burning, stomach unpleasantly tight, because Aziraphale probably didn't want to look at it any more. He's probably going to toss it away as soon as Crowley can't see. He doesn't know what he was thinking.

~

Crowley rubs curiously at the elephant. It doesn't look like he remembers. When he'd given it to Aziraphale it had been a clunky bit of pale wood, full of knots, all hard corners, rough edges, and badly matched ears. One tusk shorter and thicker than the other, eyeholes not entirely in the right place. It definitely would have given you splinters if you'd run your thumb over it the wrong way.

But it's no longer chunky and hard, it's soft and touchable, all gentle lines with the faintest curve where they meet. As if repeated handling has worn it smooth. The colour is now a deep, warm brown, and it feels ever so faintly as if it's been touched by layer upon layer of miracles. As if it had been _kept_.

Aziraphale was right though, it kind of does look a bit like a bear from a certain angle, which makes him snort laughter unexpectedly.

There's a rustling thud behind him, and the sound of footsteps. "You can stop looking, I've found them - " Aziraphale stops talking, expression of triumph faltering when he sees what Crowley is holding. "Oh."

They look at each other for a moment, and Crowley is not even going to feel guilty for snooping, because Aziraphale had asked him to help.

"I can't believe you still have this." Crowley's honestly not sure whether to laugh it off, as more evidence of Aziraphale's proven inability to throw anything away, or to be weirdly, painfully touched. Because it's been thousands of years, no wonder it has a miracle on it. The damn thing would have probably fallen apart, or succumbed to woodworm centuries ago.

Aziraphale drifts closer, and he looks strangely worried about Crowley's reaction, which makes no sense at all. Because Crowley had made this for him, five thousand years ago, and he still has it. He still has it. Why on earth does he still have it? He desperately wants to ask, but isn't sure how to.

"I gave you this on the Ark," Crowley says quietly, thumb drifting absently over a tusk that's no longer as sharply pointed as he remembers.

Aziraphale nods. "You did."

He smiles, and Crowley recognises it as the sort of smile he gives when he thinks he's being terribly silly about something. When he thinks he's going to be called out on it, and is desperately trying to think of an appropriate justification for said behaviour.

"I didn't expect you to keep it," Crowley admits. "It, ah, it really wasn't very good." That's something of an understatement.

Aziraphale's expression has slipped into something uncertain as he moves closer to the desk, pushes shut the drawer it was in, so he can stand right next to Crowley, eyes drifting between the wooden carving and Crowley's face, as if he's waiting to be teased.

"It was the first thing anyone ever gave me," Aziraphale explains, after Crowley just raises a curious eyebrow. "The first thing that was ever really _mine_."

Crowley blinks at him, surprised. Because he remembers well enough when he'd given it to Aziraphale, that first, awkward, uncertain moment of friendship. The first thing Crowley had made for someone else. He'd convinced himself that the angel had taken it to be polite, to avoid hurting his feelings. Because Aziraphale had looked so confused and uncomfortable, as if he'd had no idea what to do with it. Crowley had always assumed that he'd thrown it away not long after. He's not sure what to do with finding it, five thousand years later, kept in a drawer that Aziraphale sees every day, miracled to stay together.

Aziraphale sighs when it becomes obvious that Crowley wants more. 

"Angels weren't really supposed to have personal belongings, they weren't supposed to care about _things_. I knew I should have thrown it away, but I couldn't. It reminded me of you, when I didn't see you, sometimes for centuries at a time."

"I didn't think you cared?" Crowley says. He means it to come out surprised and teasing, but it comes out as something much more honest. Because he genuinely hadn't thought Aziraphale cared, not that early into their friendship. The faintest suggestion that they could be the same in any way, that they could find common ground, it was enough to have the angel retreating back into protests, and deflections, and occasionally insults, and then disappearing for years at a time. Until Crowley had learned to be more subtle, more patient.

Aziraphale clears his throat. "Yes, well, I felt a little silly. You gave it to me like it didn't matter at all." He looks like he wants to reach for it, to hide it away again. "And I felt guilty for imbuing it with more meaning than it had."

Crowley gives a shaky laugh, at how bloody ironic that is.

"Aziraphale, I spent _hours_ carving this for you," he says, looking down at that awkward little thing still in his hand, rather than at the angel's face. It's been far too long for him to still feel embarrassed about it. Because Aziraphale knows by now, he has to know, how could he not? "Before I even knew how to do it properly. I'd broken three of them before I got it even close to right, couldn't make the ears work, tusks kept losing bits off the ends, and I nearly took the top of my thumb off twice. It was a gift for you, and I wanted it to be perfect, I thought it had to be perfect for you, or at least better than it was, but I wasn't good enough yet, and - "

Aziraphale settles one hand over the wooden elephant, fingers curled around the side of Crowley's palm. He takes a deep breath, and then his other hand lifts, to press unexpected and warm against the side of Crowley's face.

"It was perfect, Crowley."

He says it so softly, so easily, as if it's been something that Aziraphale kept with the same care as all the things he couldn't bear to be parted from, his books, and snuff boxes, and his pocket watches. A belonging that had meant something, something he'd _treasured._

"Angel." Crowley can't manage anything else, because if he'd only known, if he'd _known_ that back then, then maybe long stretches of time when they didn't see each other wouldn't have felt quite so hopeless, or so lonely.

Aziraphale shifts forward, as if the word was an entreaty, and he's carefully stepping into Crowley's space, arms folding round Crowley's back, pulling him gently in, until they're pressed into each other, Crowley's angles tucked perfectly against Aziraphale's chest. The hug is firm, and solid, in a way no one else could ever hold him, and Crowley's hands lift and awkwardly press against Aziraphale's back, before he can decide if they should. Six thousand years and they've never once embraced, they've never held each other, and maybe that was a good thing, because Crowley already feels like he's in danger of cracking open, and spilling everywhere.

"Thank you for the gift," Aziraphale murmurs against the side of his face. "It was a lovely gesture."

"Y'welcome," Crowley says quietly.

Aziraphale gives a soft, breathy laugh, that Crowley feels all the way through him. With one last gentle, almost indulgent squeeze, that Crowley manages not to make a single sound under, Aziraphale sighs and gently eases back. Crowley instinctively tries to turn his head, to tilt down just a fraction, before stopping himself once he realises what that implies.

There's a pause, in which Crowley is certain Aziraphale is going to move away, that he's going to explain kindly and apologetically that he didn't mean it like that, that Crowley has assumed too much, gone too fast again -

"Oh, you always were braver than I was," Aziraphale says instead, a flare of warm breath against his cheek, before the angel is touching his jaw, guiding his head round to meet him, and pressing his mouth firmly over Crowley's. It happens so quickly and so easily, after all this time, that Crowley has no time to expect it, no time to prepare for it, all he can do is surrender to it. He tightens his fingers in Aziraphale's jacket and kisses him back.

He's always thought this moment, if it ever happened, would be loud, and obvious, and would come on the end of a long confession. Or perhaps after an argument, something dramatic, something worthy of their long friendship, of the complicated, forbidden, and often denied, depth of their feelings for each other.

But instead, it's as if Aziraphale simply decided that it was time, decided that they'd both waited long enough. It's just the two of them, in the back of the bookshop, kissing quietly and gently, in a way that's long overdue, soft, shifting presses of mouth that neither of them seem inclined to stop. Crowley can feel Aziraphale breathing, can feel his chest expand against his own, the way he hums quiet, satisfied contentment against Crowley's mouth, and then tangles their fingers together, the little wooden elephant pressed tightly between their palms.


End file.
